


all i care about is my dog (and like maybe two people)

by stealthsuit



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dogsitting, Hawkguy, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-06-07 02:22:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15208736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stealthsuit/pseuds/stealthsuit
Summary: As the Amazing Hawkeye, Clint has made somebad, ahem,questionabledecisions in his life. He’s still trying to decide ifstealingadopting Lucky is one.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> first of all, special thanks to SOLSTICE!!!! my amazing artist that constantly supported me even though i changed my mind like four different times. this year’s mods were so great and understanding to let me post this late (sobs). i’m busy 24/6 so the fact that i’m still in this is absolutely mindblowing. 
> 
> big thanks to sakkakitty and the rest of the wh discord for their encouragement. i love y’all to death. 
> 
> here is [the CUTEST art](http://dinosaurbyakmu.tumblr.com/post/175669759884/worlds-best-dog-parents-dogrents-dogfathers)

As the Amazing Hawkeye, Clint has made some ~~bad~~ , ahem, _questionable_ decisions in his life. He’s still trying to decide if ~~stealing~~ adopting Lucky is one of them. Clint stands in an aisle of a PetsMart, staring at the bags of dog food with growing confusion.

“This is fucking nuts,” he says to himself, looking at the prices. He doesn’t want to get the cheapest bag just because; he wants to get the biggest bang for his buck, but: “What the hell is the difference between Beneful and Bonio?”

_Just read the fucking descriptions_ , his inner Kate voice says with an exasperated sigh. _Oh, my fuck. How are you so useless at this?_ Clint moves onto the other brands on the shelves, his eyes rovering over the capital letters and the urgent message of _with salmon!!!_ Would Lucky enjoy salmon? He does like pizza, but they’re not exactly the same thing.

Wait a second. Clint drags his hands down his face and shakes his head. These are all Purino. Jesus, why does Purino need three different names for dog food? “Just use Purino,” he mutters. Why do they have to make it complicated? He just wants some damn food Lucky won’t choke on.

if he can get away with feeding Lucky pizza for the rest of his life, he will, but Lucky is an _injured dog._ And Clint isn’t an idiot despite what all the women in his life say (although, that is a pretty shitty statistic to have, he’s not going to lie). Lucky can’t survive on just pizza when he’s missing an eye and has a busted leg. How _do_ you heal an injured dog? Thankfully, Clint’s crazy rich now so he can literally spend money on everything, but somehow that doesn’t sound like it’ll make this easier. He pulls out his phone and calls Kate. The line is dead after two seconds, but he gets a judgmental text. Typical.

**it's kate bissshhhhh:  
** who tf calls anymore? y can’t u txt like a normal person

Clint rolls his eyes and opens the message app. It’s faster to call—Kate is such a _child_ —but she’ll just ignore him again and he’s freaking out, dammit.

there is nothing wrong with some verbal conversation my dear protege

**it's kate bissshhhhh:**  
i’m sending you a cease and desist letter  
srsly wat's up

i got a dog and i’m losing my mind over these dog food brands why are there so many

**it's kate bissshhhhh:**  
you got a DOG?????  
and you didn’t send me PICS  
i’m HURT  
i’m coming over RIGHT NOW

it happened very fast okay excuse me  
and his name is lucky

**it's kate bissshhhhh:** **  
** eh at least it’s not a dumb person name like allen

wow what do you have against Allens?  
and “eh”???? Lucky is a good name, you’re banned from my house

**it's kate bissshhhhh:**  
that won’t stop me bitch  
oh my goddd you got a doggggg  
you better take good care of him or i’m killing you

are you seriously giving me the shovel talk for my own dog  
how dare you

**it's kate bissshhhhh:**  
clint barton actual human disaster  
u cant deny it man

**it's kate bissshhhhh** is typing...

**it's kate bissshhhhh:**  
i caught you eating pizza of the floor like a flopping fish instead of using ur arms

Okay, to be _fair_ , he had gotten shot by a tranq. It had taken a while to wear off, not one of his proudest moments, but he swears it’s an isolated event that belongs in the _past_ so Kate can fuck right off. Clint rubs his temple and closes the messages. In the time to text all of that, he could’ve Googled the brands and how to take care of an injured dog and get something actually substantial instead of, uh, getting his feelings hurt. It’s whatever. Kate doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She still thinks she’s in the friend zone with America Chavez (but he’s not allowed to talk about that anyway) (useless).

He’s a better man than the Russies and that alone means that Lucky’s in good hands. Well, better hands. He’s not the one who threw a poor innocent dog into traffic in the rain. That has to count for something. Clint shakes his head. Quit stalling, idiot. Just pick up a bag and go. He crouches down and reaches for one.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Clint freezes, holds his position in the awkward half-up half-down crouch. He turns his head to the voice and regrets not dressing up a little more. His pjs can pass for outdoor wear—they’re literally just sweats—and he’s just getting dog food, but dearest God, this PetsMart guy is actually hot in the brooding way even with the red vest and now Clint just feels. Weird. He feels weird. Clints knows that he’s conventionally good-looking, but PetsMart guy can be a lot more impressed right now. Just saying.

“Uh,” Clint says unhelpfully. “Yes?”

“Do you have it?” The man asks.

Clint blinks. “What do I have?”

“I was watching you for a little bit—”

“You were watching?”

“Well, I mean. You were staring at the dog food for a decent amount of time.”

“Oh,” Clint says. “Yeah. I was.”

The man squints at him, shielding his grey eyes, and Clint briefly mourns a shred of his dignity that has just died. “Do you need help or something?”

Clint looks back at the bags of dog food that he’s still undecided on. “Or something,” he mutters and turns back to the man to say, “Yeah, I have a newly acquired broken dog.”

The man raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. What. Is his _life?_ “No dogs are broken.”

“Of course not—” Clint darts his eyes to the man’s name tag. “—Bucky. That was a test and you passed it. But seriously though, my dog. His name is Lucky, by the way. Totally didn’t mean to rhyme with your name, that’s just a coincidence—” _Or perhaps, fate._ “—he has a broken leg and who knows what else and there’s just. So many types of dog food. That can possibly help him. I don’t know where to start.” Clint takes a breath, looks at the man’s kind of unimpressed looking face, and adds, “He likes pizza.”

The man raises the other eyebrow which isn’t usually a good sign, you know. Both eyebrows being raised. Unfortunately, there are no shovels nearby so Clint kind of has to just stand there in front of this unspeakably hot man and be alive. He shoots a quick prayer for some malicious robots to attack for the sake of his tarnished dignity.

Clint looks at the man’s mouth. Eyes at his spectacularly unchapped lips really. Is that a faint smirk or is he projecting? Doesn’t matter. Lucky needs his food.

“Well, most dogs are lactose intolerant so you might wanna cut down on the pizza,” Bucky says. And yeah, that’s definitely a smirk. “I do the same thing with my dog,” he adds on with a stage whisper and a wink. “But don’t tell my boss that.”

Clint shrugs, his lips quirking, pleased that he’s not being chastised. “He just looks so hungry. I can’t help it.”

“I know, right? And when they give you the eyes—”

“I’m a goner.”

“Exactly.” Bucky nods and puts his hands in his pockets which only serves to tighten the sleeves around his arms. And hoooo boy, the man has muscles. Seriously, is PetsMart like a side thing? Does Bucky fight in a ring?

Clint looks away before he’s caught staring for too long, but damn, those arms are meant to be in a museum.

“So um,” he says. “Dog food?”

“Oh, right. Sorry. I totally just forgot to do my job,” Bucky says, laughing. “Since your dog’s injured, I recommend meat and rice. Chicken, beef. It can get pretty expensive, but if you join our membership program…” Bucky trails off with a hopeful grin. “Wink wink, hint hint, nudge nudge.”

Clint may jump off a cliff for him.

“I dunno. I don’t really give out personal information to strangers. I feel like we’re moving too fast.”

“Are we really strangers if we bonded over dogs? I’m sensing a kindred spirit.”

Clint laughs. “You and half the world.” He clears his throat and peeks at the time on his watch. Two whole fucking hours. Lucky should be starving by now. “So should I go with this Beneful one?”

“I would,” Bucky answers. “If you’re done, I can check you out.”

“Trying to score an email from me?” Clint teases.

“It would be nice. Your inbox will never be lonely.”

And is this flirting or friendliness? Clint sighs. He’s not in the habit of assuming every guy he meets plays for his team, but _that_ would be nice. Clint grabs the bag and tucks it under his arm as he makes his way out of the aisle, Bucky on his heels.

“So how did Lucky get a broken leg? Doesn’t sound very lucky to me though I love the name.”

“I enjoy irony,” Clint says, matter of fact. “And he’s lucky to be alive, that’s why. He was thrown into traffic by Russian mobsters.”

Bucky whistles. “Jesus, what did they have against you?”

“Well. It was their dog first. Long story. I just… forcefully transferred ownership.” Along with the apartment building. He may be the most average Avenger, but he’s still an Avenger, dammit. Be impressed. Clint doesn’t feel like telling Bucky that though. Chances are, Bucky already knows because come on, he’s _Hawkeye._ And if he doesn’t, Clint doesn’t want Bucky to suddenly treat him differently.

It’s definitely a part of his highlight reel though. Take that, Russies.

Bucky whistles again and Clint’s stomach wiggles with giddiness like a 13 year-old’s.

“So yeah. Lucky got hit. Lost an eye and busted his leg. Cracked ribs. But he’s tough. He’ll get through it.” Clint raises the bag of dog food. “With chicken.”

“Man, that sounds rough. I’m glad I can help. And he’s _lucky_ to have you. Someone who cares that much.”

“He’s my dog now.” Clint shrugs. “Nothing to it.”

Bucky checks him out (but unfortunately doesn’t check him out. It’s fine). Clint does end up giving him his email and robots don’t fall from the sky so all in all, it ends up being a nice day. And hey, having Lucky around means an excuse to hang out at PetsMart. For grooming purposes. He totally doesn’t have ulterior motives, no way.


	2. Chapter 2

The only thing that’s keeping Clint on his feet and not slumped over the railing as he climbs up the five long flights of stairs is the one cold can of Mountain Dew waiting for him in the fridge. It’s July. New York is under the devil’s armpit. And maybe he should be careful with his metaphors because that might come true. Clint knocks on wood. Fighting giant Godzilla babies takes a toll on anyone, especially in the heat, but in a surprising event of extreme agileness and stealth and probably fucking luck, Clint doesn’t get thrown into anything this time. Who the fuck needs superpowers?  
  
Clint finally reaches the door after five treacherous minutes and makes a beeline to the fridge. He snatches the can and rolls it back and forth against his skin, sighing in relief. The fridge is his only salvation. Clint cracks open the can and downs three swallows, the beverage burning his throat, wishing he can fit in the fridge for a moment of coolness. He hears Lucky pad over and kneels down to ruffle the dog’s fur and scratch his ears.  
  
“Did you eat today?” Clint asks, walking over to the other side of the kitchen to check on the dog food. The bowl is still half full, even though he was gone the whole day.  
  
“Lucky…” he murmurs. “You need to eat, puppy.”  
  
Lucky’s no puppy, of course, but he looks so withered, so small.  
  
“You need to eat so you can heal proper,” Clint says. He kneels down and grabs some pellets from the bowl. “Come on, boy. Come on.” He puts his hand by Lucky’s snout. “Come on, Luck. Eat!”  
  
Lucky licks his hand, snatching food with his tongue, but not all of it. Clint sighs, dropping the rest back into the bowl. Better luck next time?  
  
These puns are never getting old.  
  
Clint pets Lucky’s head and eyes the bandages woven around his body. They need to be changed, not the stark white he remembers from this morning. Clint opens the cabinet and pulls out the first aid kit, snapping it open.  
  
“Okay,” he says, sitting back down on the floor. “Hold still now, boy.” He wraps his legs around Lucky’s body to keep him in place.  
  
He unwraps the bandage on Lucky’s leg first, face pinching at the smell. It’s still hard to look at the wounds, red and shiny. Clint wipes it clean, squeezing his legs tighter around Lucky when he wiggles. “I know, I know. It hurts. But this is going to help you,” Clint says.  
  
He peels the new ace bandage and wraps it around the leg, tight, but not too tight, firm and gentle and slow. He pushes up the lid of the trash can and tosses the used bandage. Clint repeats the effort with Lucky’s chest and head bandages, kissing Lucky for when the dog whimpers at the alcoholic wipes and antiseptic spray. Fuck, everytime he does this, he just wants to punch Ivan’s face in. Pin him to the wall with arrows. Crucify. It’s fucking violent and vengeful, but Lucky’s whimpers pull his heart apart. And no fucking dog deserves this.  
  
“You’re okay, it’s okay,” Clint murmurs into Lucky’s ear, rubbing his back. He eases his legs off of Lucky and watches as Lucky dives for the food, chuckling. “Now, you’re hungry? Makes sense, I guess that took a lot out of you.”  
  
He's still going to PetsMart. Chicken doesn't seem up Lucky's alley and maybe he'll do better with beef. There hasn't been a reason to come by because Lucky's fur is too short to be cut, but since he's not really eating, Clint might as well drop by.  
  
He snaps close the first aid kit and tucks it back into the cabinet. Clint leans against the counter, observing Lucky as he bounces around after eating. They’re almost there. Man, he’s worn out. He gets up and stretches, moaning at the way his back cracks. His shirt pulls at his skin, sticky from the sweat. Clint looks to the clock. 7:15. Jesus fucking Christ. And he had gotten the alert at nine in the morning. Whatever. If he gets in the shower now, he’ll be done in time for Dog Cops. He puts some Lean Cuisine in the microwave and heads to the bathroom.

 

“Long time no see!” Bucky greets.

Oh Jesus, Clint is not remotely prepared for this. Steps in the fucking door and there’s Bucky’s face waiting to be behold.

“Beef,” he croaks and then says, “ _No.”_ Where are the shovels? Clint hides his face in his hand to avoid looking Bucky’s face.

“Um, I’m gonna need context for this, sir,” Bucky says. Can Doom just fly in here, please?

Clint peaks through his fingers and Bucky isn’t laughing that hard. Barely holding it together, but. _It’s not that bad. Worse things have happened, you fucking baby._ “I need beef for my dog.”

“Oh Lucky, right?”

Clint drops his hand. “You remembered?” Is it socially acceptable to ask him out now?

“Kind of hard not to. Memorable name. Memorable owner,” Bucky says with a wink, “Let me show you where the beef is.”

Clint’s pretty sure he’s already looking at it.

Bucky makes a muffled sound, looks at him with raised eyebrows and a smirk. Oh shit, had he said that aloud? Whatever, it’s too late. Besides, Bucky had said _memorable owner_ so either he’s flirting or just being nice and since when retail workers are that nice for no reason? Clint’s read enough bitching from Reddit to know _never._ It’s definitely flirting. He’s banging the gavel. But how do you flirt with normal people? Usually, Clint has to save somebody’s life first or vise versa.

“How’s Lucky doing?” Bucky asks, walking backwards in the aisle. “Feeling better?”

Clint shrugs. “He’s...doing.” He sighs. “Lucky’s not eating as much as I’d like him to be. I don’t know if it’s the taste or if he just doesn’t have an appetite. I hope it’s the chicken ‘cause that’s really easy to fix but if not…” He shrugs again.

“Man,” Bucky says. “That’s….rough.” The corner of his lip quirks up.

“Oh, my God,” Clint says, laughing. “Are you actually proud of yourself?”

“I had to,” Bucky protests, his smile the width of his face. “The opportunity was there; I had to take it.”

“I’m suing you for emotional damages, oh my God.”

“Please don’t.” Bucky shakes his head, still chuckling, “I work at PetsMart.”

They stop in front of the dog food and Clint picks up the one with beef. “Man, I really hope Lucky goes for this one. I’m not excited about visiting the vet.”

“I don’t think anybody is. I tell my dog that we’re going to the park and the look of betrayal on his face when we stop at the vet kills me everytime. He’s so hurt.”

Clint laughs. “Hopefully, Lucky will only have to visit the vet for check-ups. He doesn’t need anymore accidents in his life.”

“Sounds good. Do you need anything else?”

“Oh, yeah,” Clint says. “I need a leash for him. He hasn’t gone out on a walk yet, but I think he’s healed enough.” It’s something that Clint’s been thinking about. It can’t be good for Lucky to laze around all day. He doesn’t want to risk atrophy.

“Leashes are in aisle nine. I can show you where that is.”

“Thanks. I totally wouldn’t have known where to find it,” Clint teases.

“Oh, sorry. I can, uh, leave you to it,” Bucky says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” Clint says. “Tell me about your dog. You already know a lot about mine.”

“Oh man, where do I start?”

   
  
Clint won’t admit it to anyone who asks, but he’s definitely more nervous about this than Lucky is. He leans to the right, his hand over his thigh as he stretches out his leg. Clint holds the position for a good minute before switching to the left. He eyes the leash hanging off the hook by the door. It has a four-leaf clover pattern because he and Bucky are kindred spirits. Lucky lies lazily on the floor by the couch, his eyes half open, watching Clint stretch. He rolls his head over his front legs.  
  
“Don’t give me that look,” Clint says. “It’s important to stretch. You don’t want me to pull something on our very. First. Walk.” Judging by Lucky’s physique though, he’s more likely to pull something than Clint is. He hasn’t been moving much, legs still weak. Clint had taken off the bandages a few days ago. Lucky’s wounds have healed nicely, only patches of short fur giving away hints of what had happened.  
  
“Man, what did you do before me?” Clint asks, bouncing on his feet. “I’ve never met a dog so unenthusiastic to go on a walk.” He makes sure to stress the word, but Lucky’s head remains motionless on his front legs. Given Lucky’s previous owners, Clint’s not all that surprised. But it’s still disheartening to think about.  
  
He walks over to the door to grab the leash and makes his way back to the living space. “Come on, boy. Don’t make me drag you,” Clint says, hooking on the leash. “Up, Lucky, up. Let’s go.”  
  
With some reluctance, Lucky rises from the floor. He noses at Clint’s legs and whines. Clint has to be stronger than this although he does reach down to rub Lucky’s ears. “Don’t give me that,” he says. “You need to get into shape, babe.”  
  
Clint pulls on the leash, leading Lucky out the apartment, and closes the door. Lucky’s not sluggish on his paws and he keeps pace just fine, but he can be a little bit faster. He’s still doing better than Clint expects. They can build on it with future walks. Clint pats his pockets, checking for plastic bags for when Lucky decides to take a shit. He’s got his keys around his wrist. Arrows and bow in his backpack since it’s a day that ends with y in fucking Brooklyn. Alright. Looks like they’re ready to go.  
  
  
  
  
Nothing happens on the walk, miraculously, but Clint does find more questionable graffiti that he’s been seeing around the streets the past week. Vagabond codes mean something big is about to happen. Clint recognizes it from his carny days, but he doesn’t know what the fuck is going to happen. It just may or may not involve a circus (but it totally involves a circus). The Cirque Du Nuit is scheduled to perform at this new “six star hotel” thing and Clint’s watched enough heist films to see where this is going. Also, there’s the entire first half of his life.  
  
Kate has tickets to the thing because—Clint keeps forgetting—she’s a damn Bishop and he gets to act like her bodyguard (“Come on, I can take care of myself.” “You know I’m only pretending to be your bodyguard, right?”). Getting in will be a hitch. There’s just the matter of Lucky.  
  
  
  
  
“Seriously, Clint?” Simone says. She doesn’t sigh, but he can hear an urge to in her voice. “Why not just hire a dogsitter?”  
  
“This was last minute!” Clint insists. Technically. He’d found out the time last minute. Surprise.  
  
Simone’s eyes roam his body—Clint suppresses a wince at the suit—and meets his, unimpressed. “It’s my day off.”  
  
“Please, just look at him, Simone,” he pleads. “He’s super easy, I swear. All he does is lie around. You just need to let him out sometimes so he can do his bizz.”  
  
Simone gives him a look. “I am not picking up dog poop.”  
  
“It’s just like changing diapers though! Except you don’t have to wipe his butt.”  
  
“Clint.”  
  
“Simone.” They engage in a brief staring contest before Clint breaks it off. Not that he can’t go through it, he’s just on a time crunch. “Please?” Clint wiggles his shoulders. “Simoney kenobi, you’re my only hope.”  
  
Simone blinks at him. Yeah, he’s sorry about it too. Clint slides an inch back. He swears she’s doing it on purpose, dragging it out to get back at him.  
  
Simone sighs, finally, and says, “Don’t you ever call me that again. Give me the leash.”  
  
Clint resists the urge to dab in victory and hands over the leash with a face splitting smile. “Thank you, thank you. You’re the best, Simone.”  
  
“If my kids ask for a dog after this..” she trails off.  
  
“They can visit Lucky anytime.” Clint winks. “Thank you so much.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Go on your date.”  
  
“It’s not a date!” Clint throws over his shoulder as he skips down the stairs. As if. He’s a little stuck on Bucky as embarrassing as that is.


	3. Chapter 3

Wow, taking care of a dog is actually a lot of work. Clint knows this, but let’s be fucking real, knowing things is not the same as _knowing knowing_ things. Reduplication. He had looked it up.  

It’s not a _bad_ idea, not necessarily, but he certainly had not think this through. See, taking care of a dog means _taking care of the dog,_ means watching it, feeding it, letting it out so it can take a piss. And like, Clint isn’t a fucking imbecile, again he knows that but Jesus, that’s still a lot for an Avenger/SHIELD agent/neighborhood vigilante (?? Damn Tracksuit Draculas) who isn’t home ~~most~~ some of the time.

He’d ask his neighbors (tenants) (and wow, that means weird power dynamic, Clint doesn’t want to think about this anymore), but they all have a life and no time, fucking schedule conflicts, shit and all. Simone had been a one time thing. She’s pretty much working 24/7 and let’s be real, Clint’s more available to watch her kids than vise versa. Kate’s more prone to leave the state in an existential crisis now because of one America Chavez (she says she hangs around him so nobody can judge her, but _come on,_ he’s not this awful (is he?)). Bobbi’s out of the pool. Stark’s all the way in fucking Manhattan, _no fucking thanks._ Clint’s running low on people that can—and _will_ —dog-sit Lucky.

He rubs his eyes, blinks several times against the unforgiving light of his phone screen and pulls up Craigslist. It’s three in the morning, but nightmares don’t care for the time. It had been God awful. In the dream, he’d came home to Lucky’s body after being away on a mission because nobody had been available to look after him. Clint rather not add a dog-size grave to his list of Things to Feel Guilty About™.

Half of Lucky lies heavy on his stomach even though it’s the hell pits of July and they’re furnaces radiating on each other. Clint strokes his back, his thumb nearly gliding on Lucky's soft fur. Maybe it’s because of the time or maybe Clint’s actually a sentimental baby, but looking through the ads almost feels like he’s reviewing candidates he can give his child away to.

Clint squints, partially because of the light, partially because some of these ads look like they had been written by bots. He considers making his own job offer poster to paste around Brooklyn for like half a second before deciding that it’s not worth putting up with Kate’s _Graphic design is my passion_ jabs for the rest of the search. And, as unfortunate as it is to say, Lucky just doesn’t have that many good angles and Clint’s no professional photographer. Sure, he can hire one, but ughhh that’s so much to do.

After scrolling for half an hour, Clint finally settles on a _James Barnes_ who lives in Brooklyn—Bed-Stuy specifically (hallelujah)—has flexible hours, and can board Lucky. The man even has his own website. Très professional. It’s a lot better looking than all the _please call me so I can visit your pupper!!!_ Barf. Barnes doesn’t have pictures of himself which is kind of suspicious, but there’s a huge collection of all the dogs he’s taken care of which is the biggest mood ever. Besides, if anything happens, Clint can always put an arrow through the guy.

He sends a message, proofreading it for a split second under the sleepy haze, and tosses his phone somewhere in the room so he can’t keep checking it for a reply. It’s four am. Sleep calls.

 

Clint wakes up to a wetness on his cheek. Groaning, he opens one eye and finds Lucky’s wet nose trying to osmosis its way into his face.

“Alright, alright,” he mutters, pushing the dog off. Clint’s been through worse, but 70 pounds of dog are too much for him at whatever time this is. He needs these ribs, okay?

“I’m up, Lucky, chill.”

The beef he picked out from last week has worked like fucking dognip if that exists and now Lucky’s learned that an awake Clint Barton means food. Who the hell says dogs aren’t smart?

Clint pulls himself off the bed, his body protesting like a piece of gum. He scans the room for his phone and finds it on a pile of clothes that he’s neglected. There’s a message from the dog-sitter and eyes wide, he swipes it open.

 **From: jbarnes@barnesandbuddies.com**  
You’re in luck! I’m available for night stays. My number is 718-555-7008 if you’d like to go over some more details.

Clint thumbs in the number in and texts.

 

Hi! It’s Clint. With the dog. So my job is unpredictable sometimes and I end up being busy than planned. Is there like a grace period after the scheduled nights or is my dog just screwed?

 

Now, that’s not too long, is it? He shakes his head—no reason to be worried about that anyway—and if so, if he begs Simone just nicely…

Clint plugs in his phone to charge and locks himself in the bathroom for a nice, long shower.

Cirque Du Nuit is only one drop in the ocean and he needs to get back on his to-do list. Starting with all those trick arrows. Jesus, he already have stepped on a slime arrow this past week—what a fucking nightmare to clean out—and it’s over for him if Lucky, godforbid, steps on an explodey arrow. He might just end it all there. Clint scrubs his ears and flicks the wax off his fingers to swirl down the drain.

He’s hit a lag in SHIELD missions. Avengers missions. Feeling useless fucking sucks. Like it’s good that they don’t need him all the time, it’s good that whatever the problem is, it’s not serious to need him, but damn, without these missions, what the hell is he going to do? Get another job? How do normal people be normal? Simone works all the damn time. He has no idea what Grills does outside of being the Gordon Ramsey of barbecues, now that he’s thinking about it. And you know what? What does Kate do when she’s not Hawkeye? And how come he doesn’t know that?

They meet up for Friday potlucks and Mary from third makes a bomb chicken pasta casserole and that’s it now, isn’t it. Hence, the list. 

Okay, it’s time to get out of the shower. He pushes the last of the bubbles from his hair and shuts off the water. If sonic showers exists, this wouldn’t be happening. Maybe he should hit Stark up on that. SHIELD has a shit ton of therapists, which good concept they all need one, but also their patient-doctor confidentiality policy is shot to hell. The last thing he needs is SHIELD thinking that he cries. Period.

He walks around naked to air-dry and plays Candy Crush for a solid twenty minutes before he realizes he needs to get dressed. Lucky peers at him from the couch with non-judgmental eyes. Or maybe he doesn’t know how to read dog eyes yet. He hears a chirp and finds a new text.

 **James the Dogsitter:** **  
** Why, are you an international spy or something? To be honest, I haven’t had this happen yet. I guess I can allow one grace day? Maybe more depending on the dog. Can I meet your dog beforehand?

If I tell you, I’d have to kill you. But no, sometimes the boss just wants mandatory overtime. I’m free today if you are. Where do you want to meet?

How about Fulton at 3?

Sounds good to me.

 

Clint flops onto the couch, careful to not hit Lucky. His head falls back against the cushion. Lucky moves his head to lay it on Clint’s lap. They spend the next hour or so sitting there, Clint’s fingers in Lucky’s fur. He allows himself this before he gets up to work on the trick arrows. It's a little strange to be at home. Sure, it hasn't been long since his last mission, but he's not all too familiar with the concept of resting. As much as he wants it. But the city isn’t in immediate danger. And he's doing normal people activities like meeting up with a dogsitter in a few hours. These are good things, Barton.


End file.
